


MDW

by InnerSpectrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: John has pulled away from Sherlock. The idiot genius finds out why.





	MDW

Sherlock walks into the empty sitting room and sits down heavily in his chair. He had not taken off his coat or scarf. He sits in the semi-dark, only the hall sconce by the door and a lamp by the far window were on. He often preferred it like this, it helped him concentrate.

But not tonight. 

He looked around the quiet flat. Exactly as it was _before_. He was to used this life, so why did it feel too quiet, too empty now? 

Because John was not there anymore.

That quiet, empty life he once cherished was behind him. He did not want to return to it. He had no idea how much he would miss the doctor until John shut him out of his life. They somehow got through Moriarty and Magnussen. They just barely made it through Norbury and Culverton, but now they have reached a sort of impasse after Eurus. They have said the words of forgiveness. They have put over a year behind them since then. John no longer blamed him for Mary’s death and Sherlock believed him, but somehow he was still hurting. So was Sherlock, for he still wanted, no, he still needed John in his life.

Something with John has changed in the last few weeks. John was always a puzzle full of wonderful, interesting and sometimes horrible surprises, but Sherlock could not work out what this current puzzle piece could be. They still worked cases, when John was not at the clinic. Sherlock had finally learned that John needed to be a doctor as much as he needed the adrenaline rush of working cases with him. It was sometimes inconvenient, but they worked it out. Still, something was now strained between them, the easy camaraderie of before no longer there. It was always just under the surface, always wanting to break free, yet somehow unable to crack through that last layer of frost. William Sherlock Scott Holmes missed John Hamish Watson at a level beyond the reach of his logic and he knew John missed him as well.

_Still…_

Sherlock rose from his seat, taking off his coat, scarf and jacket, dropping them on his chair and walks to the window.

_London evenings are such magnificence._

Not because they were different from evenings in other cities, but simply because they were London. And there was no more unusual a thing for an Englishman than an evening in the capital. The dark sky did not become an obstacle to the bustling city, on the contrary. When it was getting dark, the city lights came on and it was those lights that gave a London night that sense of the mystery, of the unusual. A changing enigma that entices and excites his soul again and again. 

Baker Street was never crowded at this hour. There were almost no cars passing, just a couple walking lazily towards wherever. They held hands. Even from this distance he could see how happy they were. They exuded a shared joy. 

 _Will such joy ever be mine?_  

He glances at his violin case and music stand. His long slender fingers touch the sheets of music there. He looks over some of his original compositions: the one for John's nightmares, Irene's mournful tune, the waltz for John and Mary's wedding and his latest piece, simply initialed MDW. He opens the case, taking the bow and violin to the window, tunes the instrument and begins to play the new tune, closing his eyes to the street scene below and the world around him.

He plays for nearly an hour straight before he lowers the instrument and leans against the window frame, looking out again.

_Watson, what are you doing tonight? Should I call? Perhaps come by in person? I want to see you._

"How do I fix this… this void between us, my dear Watson?  What is going on with you? How do I tell you I miss you, when I can't seem to talk with you anymore?" He muses aloud to the universe outside his window.

_How do I tell you I love you?_

"You give me space. You compose beautiful music. You wait patiently until I can tell you that I miss you too." a familiar tenor speaks from behind Sherlock saying the impossible.

_When you eliminate the impossible..._

Sherlock raises his eyes slowly, his breath catching as he sees the reflection of a familiar figure leaning against the door jamb behind him.

_John._

"Hello, John." the words falls from his lips in a hushed whisper. He wants to run, throw his arms around the man, he is so happy to see him, but so many years of holding back, of being detached are so ingrained within him. Instead he turns slowly, placing the violin and bow to their stand and faces John. "You look... good."

And he does – look good. His silvered hair fairly gleams, the light of the hall sconce making a nimbus around his head. John reaches in and turns on the sitting room lights. His blue eyes sparkle with the ever present hint of mischievousness. Solid and fit. Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to see John, but now that the man was standing before him, Sherlock was at a loss.

"Hello Sherlock." The former army captain steps into the room, closing the door behind him. A small smile plays at the doctor’s lips as he looks Sherlock over. "You look... like you need to eat."

Sherlock cannot help but snigger at the all too familiar admonishment, which makes John snigger in turn. He's reminded of the first time they laughed as such together. He could tell John's thoughts have gone there as well.

"Afghanistan is still the most ridiculous." John grins confirming it, then almost under his breath adds, "Until now..."

With a quirk of his dark brow, the smile leaves Sherlock's face as he ponders what the former army captain means. John takes off his coat and scarf and hangs them on the pegs by the door, then heads to the kitchen where he turns on the lights, rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands at the sink. No, that’s not right, he’s a doctor. John does a modified version of scrubbing his hands, before he steps in front of the refrigerator. He looks to Sherlock pointedly as he pauses with one hand on the door handle.

"It's relatively safe, John. I haven't had chance to stock up for new experiments since you were here last." Sherlock smirks putting his violin and bow back in the case as John opens the door. “Just watch out for the…”

“Oh, for the love of Christ!”

John already has the bag in his hand before Sherlock can finish the warning. Several blinks later, John simply places the bag back on the shelf with a sigh, “You did say  _relatively_. Uh,… is pierced versus unpierced a factor?”

“Yes, I did.” entering the kitchen, Sherlock suppresses his smirk under the doctor’s mock glare, “With ears usually not, with...those...yes.”

John shakes his head as he roots around the refrigerator, freezer and cabinets until he’s satisfied. Sherlock finds a bottle of red wine, gifted from a client, and opens it. At the posh man's scoffing, John takes a sample, makes a face and proceeds to pour a generous amount into the sauce pan, then to the consulting detective’s amusement, discards the remainder down the drain, claiming it was good for cooking with, but not much else.  By the time John is done making his now household infamous  _thing with the peas_  and plates it, Sherlock has cleaned most of the kitchen table of his various experiment paraphernalia and scrubbed it down for human use. Sherlock opens a Shiraz, palatable to both men, to accompany the meal.

The conversation flows easy as they discuss the toddling Rosie, who is staying with her Aunt Harry for the night. Harry has finally latched on to sobriety in a way that John believes will last. He believes it enough to entrust her with his daughter. They cover some minutia of a couple of cold cases Sherlock is looking into for Lestrade. How the criminal class need to step up their game before there is a new bullet ridden smiley face. Naturally, this is the exact moment Mrs. Hudson pops in with a "woo ooh!" and some fresh baked pastries as she is wont to do time and again, advising the curly-haired genius the detriments of engaging in such folly. She leaves only when she realizes one of her favorite shows was about to come on the telly. Neither man were willing to pretend to let her watch upstairs in the flat. The dear woman glanced from one man to the other, took the hint and left with a small smile on her face. Sherlock snickered and John simply shook his head, used to it by now. It felt so much like what used to be a normal night at Baker Street, Sherlock was almost a little sad when the meal was over, the dishes washed and put away and John looks to his coat.

Sherlock does not want John to leave and from the way the doctor dawdles he clearly wants to stay as well.

_Please stay John._

As if hearing him, John goes into the kitchen and retrieves a lowball glass from the cabinet, giving Sherlock a questioning glance. He pulls a second glass at his nod, and checks them carefully because – Sherlock. He then enters the sitting room to where the scotch is kept and pours them both a couple of fingers worth.

_He’s poured the better scotch. What does that mean?_

“The piece you were playing when I came in, is it new? At first I thought you were playing the piece you often played for me when I had nightmares, but it went into something I never heard before. It’s beautiful.” John hands Sherlock a glass, then goes to lean against the kitchen door frame. 

“You…noticed? You never said…” Sherlock blinks surprised.

When they shared the flat, Sherlock’s bad sleeping habits often had him awake at odd hours, either playing the violin or running experiments as John slept. Within a week of being there John had his first bad nightmare. Sherlock deduced what it was, but it was too early in their burgeoning friendship. John did not want to talk about it. Sherlock never asked again, but he observed that John seemed better in the mornings after the nights Sherlock played his violin. After a few months Sherlock noticed certain random pieces seemed to relax the former army captain the most, calmed him, lulled him back to sleep. He composed them into an original piece that still sits on his music stand titled  _WW_.

And John was correct, parts of  _WW_ were merged into his latest piece  _MDW_.

_How long were you standing there watching, listening?_

“I saw the sheet music once. ‘WW’?”

_Oh, I keep forgetting you can read music._

“Watson’s War.”

“Of course I noticed.” John smiles with a nod, “You don’t repeat full tunes randomly, Sherlock. Yet you played nearly the exact same tune every time you noticed I had a bad PTSD nightmare. Even though I never talked to you about it, you deduced it and you helped me in a way that didn’t need vocalization. Though I suppose now that we _are_ talking about it…  Thank you for that, Sherlock. Yes, I noticed.”  

“You’re welcome, John. It was my pleasure.” Sherlock takes a sip of his Scotch, glancing at John over the glass.

Sherlock walks over to the music stand and brings the sheet music for the new piece over.  John eyes scans the notes. Sherlock can tell he’s trying to match the notes on the paper with what he heard. His fingers move slightly against the sheets while he reads, playing the imaginary piano keys he once studied as a child. John smiles handing the sheet music back.

_Ask me John. You know You want to._

“MDW?” John raises a brow as Sherlock returns the sheet music to the stand. “My Dear Watson?”

_Oh, very good!_

“Yes.” Sherlock returns to leaning against John’s chair, sipping his Scotch.

John blushes as he runs one hand through his hair, resting it on the back of his neck. He looks away, both pleased and embarrassed.  Sherlock finds it unexpectedly charming and smiles.

John's lean against the door frame is relaxed, yet there is a slight tension to him that Sherlock cannot decipher.

_He’s nervous about something. But what?_

“In fact, there’s very little about you I haven’t noticed.” John sips his scotch looking at him intently.

_What? You noticed what?_

John smirks as if having heard the thought, “Like how that ever so slight quirk of your brow, so slight that most would not notice, but I do. I know it means you challenge my statement.”

“Of course I would challenge your statement! Even an average mind would challenge that!” Sherlock could not help but scoff.

“So, would you like me tell you the most important thing about you I’ve noticed? See if I’m right?” John returns the challenge as he takes a couple of steps into the sitting room.

The genius' eyes narrow slightly as he looks at the man, not sure if he wants to know.

_Oh, who are you kidding, Sherlock? You know you want to know. You know he’s going to be right._

Sherlock leans deeper against John’s chair and nods.

“I could say a lot, but essentially it all comes down to one thing... and three words.” John finishes his drink and steps to Sherlock, standing before him. He places the glass on the side table by his chair. The nervousness of a few moment ago is replaced by a resolve as he looks up at him.

“And what would that…one thing – and those three words…be?” Sherlock finds himself riveted to the doctor’s eyes locked on his as he finishes his own glass.

Something in the universe shifts, Sherlock senses it. He feels his world begin to tilt and it is either going to rise gloriously or crash devastatingly depending on the next words spoken by John.

“The thing? You love me.” John takes the empty glass from Sherlock’s hand and places it on the table beside his, “The three words? And I you.”

_You love me._

_And I you._

Sherlock looks at John as if he is the eighth wonder of the world. Although he does not believe in miracles - they were only the invention of a human mind devoid of happiness – he could not deny even with the happiness that soars through him, this was one.

_This is a miracle._

And his mind races to store the moment in his mind palace.

There is a long silence in which John’s gentle smile becomes slowly incandescent before he speaks again, “Breathe Sherlock.”

_He knows I went to my mind palace to store this and waited._

The breath he did know he was holding comes rushing out.  He knew that perfect things do not exist. Everything must have a flaw. Perfection is an illusion, fiction, but…

_But this feels perfect!_

“I don’t understand.” 

“We are NOT putting that on a t-shirt!” John grins, reaching up to brush an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead and lets his fingers slowly slide to cup his face. There is no mistaking the gesture, still…

“But you… You’re not…”

_You’re not gay!_

“You’re right. And I would have stuck to that until my dying day, until recently."

Sherlock knows John has more to say and waits for it.

"I was nearly with a bloke once."

Sherlock cannot hide his surprise at that. John raises a hand halting the myriad of questions he had to know Sherlock was going to ask.  Sherlock bit his lip and let John finish.

"It was… a reaction to both of us barely escaping a harrowing mission with our lives. It was being trapped in the turmoil of emotions in the heat of the moment with another person, the only other person who… understood. He hugged me tight and I knew he was gay, but it had been a long time since someone had held me like that it felt good. When he kissed me, I responded to it, but at the moment of truth, I looked at him and I felt nothing for him and I, I… failed.” John grimaces at that admission. “I… I just don’t work that way. So, I wouldn’t say I’m straight, entirely? I don’t know. Yes, I’ve fucked around. A lot. Still, I just…I can’t have sex with people when I don’t have some kind of emotional connection. At least the real potential for it. It’s just that the emotional connections I’ve formed before had never been with men. The feelings for you were new to me. I honestly didn’t recognize it for what it was before the fall.”

John’s thumb traces the plane of his cheekbone and it is taking all for Sherlock to not turn his head to kiss John’s palm when he stops cold.

_Before the fall._

“You… You were falling in love with me before I died?”

“Yes.”

_He says that so boldly and fearlessly!_

Sherlock knows it for the truth.

“Oh John! I was already in love with you then, but I could not tell you because I thought you’d reject it. That you'd reject me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

_All this wasted time! Damn!_

“Because it had never happened before with a man, until you. It just did not occur to me that’s what it was. And then you died. It nearly killed me, Sherlock. I had to let go to survive and by the time you came back, I had Mary. Then everything...happened. Magnusson... Norbury...  Your sister. I... I just needed space, Sherlock.” John continues to speak, those oh so blue eyes still locked on his. “A few weeks ago, I looked at you and I felt it again, but so much stronger than it ever was and finally I knew what it was. I knew it was for you. Only you.”  

_Until you._

_Only you._

“You defy all of my preconceived notions of what I imagined I would want in a partner, in a love. And if you’ll have me, Sherlock, I want to be with you. I want to be with you in everything it entails. I don’t care what that makes me - gay, straight, demi, bi... As long as I get to be it with you.” Some of that nervousness from earlier creeps into his voice as he continues, “All I know Sherlock, is that I want you, I need you, I love you.”

Trapped in that darkening blue gaze Sherlock feels his heart flutter in a wave of hope that finds him elated and terrified. He is grateful John took the glass from him for he was sure it would have slipped from his fingers in the light of John’s declaration, let alone the feel of John’s fingers that now rest gently, so naturally rest at Sherlock's waist. He revels in the touch, speechless in the actuality of dreams coming true. Several long moments pass between them.

“Oh God, Sherlock say something, please!” John’s voice breaks.

“I do love you, John Watson.” Sherlock speaks at last, but he is already far beyond what mere spoken words can convey. "I love you so much"

_Actions speak louder than words, Sherlock._

Before he can think to move John draws his hands tight around Sherlock’s waist pulling him close until Sherlock feels John's soft lips pressed against his.

_Oh!_

One hand finds itself in John’s fine silvered strands holding his head as his other hand splays across John’s back pulling him closer. It is a sweet, soft, brushing of their lips together. It was too slow for Sherlock, who has dreamt about this, fantasized about this for seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years. Still, he wants to enjoy every moment of this, not rush things and possibly scare John. He feels a slip of the doctor’s tongue across his lip asking for entrance which Sherlock happily grants. And when their tongues connect the floodgates open.

 _Finally!_   _Finally!_

Decision made, John takes Sherlock’s arms and wrists and guides them over his shoulders, putting his own on Sherlock’s hips and then takes a step back. Sherlock follows John’s lead until they are pressed up against a wall just outside of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Words fade, save their ragged breaths forcing them apart, their lungs demanding more of them. Sherlock eyes lock on the emotions running rampant in John’s eyes.

_Emotions that are all for me._

Still…

_John stopped at the bedroom door._

_“When he kissed me, I responded to it, but at the moment of truth, I looked at him and I felt nothing for him and I, I… failed.”_

“Stop. It.” John whispers between kisses.

“Stop what?”

“You’re thinking too much, Sherlock. Emotional connection, remember? I’m not going anywhere and trust me I’m  _not_  failing you.” John slips his knee and thigh between Sherlock’s legs as proof.

Any doubt Sherlock may have had regarding John’s feelings for him, his desire for him is eradicated by feel of the doctor’s erection. The breath of both men catch as Sherlock's own erection rubs against John who reaches up and pulls Sherlock down into another heated kiss.

No other words were needed after that as John reaches behind him and opens the bedroom door, pulling Sherlock in with him.


End file.
